


oral fixation

by firewlkr



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, MSR, One Shot, POV Fox Mulder, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Humor, Smut, takes place sometime in S6 and S7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17497874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewlkr/pseuds/firewlkr
Summary: "So he wastes his love on the girls in his life that either can’t respond or won’t respond - his favored pornographic actress, the various phone sex lines, and Special Agent Dana Scully, who quelled each and every one of his flirtations with a dart of her cold blue eyes." Mulder contemplates his porn addiction. Smut MSR one-shot, Mulder POV. Takes place in a nebulous time between S6 and S7.





	oral fixation

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for up through Season Six.

_and the waves come in and they're golden_  
_but down in the_ _deep the honey is sweeter_  
_and the sun sets on the water_  
_but down in the deep the current is stronger_  
_ooh, it's stronger_

_honey - robyn_

 

As a psychologist, his mind expertly trained to a razor’s edge to slice open unsuspecting murderers and rapists minds and crawl inside them in order to walk them into the waiting arms of a jail cell, Mulder knew all about the negative personality traits implied in a pornography addiction of his proportions. He took thorough notes regarding sex addictions and disorders related to sexual deviance during his master’s program lectures, around 23 years of age at the esteemed campus in Oxford. After that lecture he went straight back to his dorm and masturbated until his wrist wrenched in agony, clutching a magazine in one hand and a dozen soiled tissues in the other. 

Freud states that early on in childhood development the mouth can be considered an erogenous zone and one of the main ways a young child receives pleasure. This leads to such deviance as thumb-sucking, sucking on a toe, a blanket, a dependence on their mother’s breast. For young Fox, it had been thumb-sucking, a habit he struggled to break well into his adolescence. The secret had been his father’s sunflower seeds. He’d pick up a seed, place it on his tongue, toy with the shell till he could snap it cleanly in half with his teeth, eat the tasty seed inside, then nibble the shells raw until he eventually spat them out, and began the process all over again. You’d be hard pressed to find anything more plentiful in remote gas stations and college campuses than sunflower seeds in every type of flavor. He didn’t feel much about the actual seed - it was comfort salt on his tongue, the pleasurable sensation of cracking each seed, and being able to take out all his anxieties on those little shells, wearing them own down to the quick one at a time. Seeds instead of his left thumb, easy. Unfortunately Freud also posits that development of such oral fixations can lead to such “unwanted” side effects like homosexuality, fetishization, and sex addictions. While Mulder is as quick to tell anyone that a lot of Freud’s bullshit has been disproven, he cannot deny that he himself has lived out a part of that legacy.

It started out innocently enough, as all things do - he’s eight years old and ruffling through the boxes under his parent’s massive bed in their summer home. He’s wearing grass-stained denim shorts and a striped polo, there is an abundance of sunlight bouncing through the robin’s egg blue curtains, and he’s been poring over dusty shoeboxes filled with old photographs, handwritten letters, forgotten scraps of knitting patterns when he finds something quite unusual. It’s the most worn box and there’s a miasma of dust as he pries open his prize. On the once glossy cover, now faded and well-loved, there’s a blonde woman giving him a special smile as she lifts her shirt to expose the strange and wondrous swells of her breasts. He feels terribly funny as he stares. He can feel his body getting all warm, sensations he’s never felt or wondered about before. He flips through curiously. Page after page of wanton warm flesh cries out to him. He forgets all about the other boxes and spends a good hour undisturbed with the box of magazines, curled in a patch of sunlight, wondering what beautiful lush girl would be camped on the next page, giving him a smile that he’s sure is only for him.

This moment of innocence is interrupted by his mother, who curiously asks “Mulder? What are you — _Oh my god!_ Put that down right now! Where did that come from?!” Before snatching the June 1963 edition of Playboy Magazine out of his hands. She’s furious with him for the rest of the day and there’s a knock-out drag-out fight with his father that evening, not the first or the last of it’s kind.

(When his father is murdered, there was not a single item he wanted more than that box of magazines.)

His psychologist’s mind tells him that his fascination with sex in all of its forms is clearly due to the lack of a nurturing environment. He can’t recall the details but there was a good chance he was weaned too early. Add a healthy dose of early childhood trauma attributed to his sister’s kidnapping followed by a genetic predisposition of bottling all of his emotions and you had 1. Fox William Mulder, constantly hungry for intimacy in any form at any time of the day. This condition had only exasperated itself in his adulthood - he was notoriously unlucky with women, either by his own doing or simple bad matches. This is all fine - he wasn’t the ugliest man on the block, one-night stands are plentiful for those who want them.

But he doesn’t want them. To fuck a girl he’s got to love her but he can’t or won’t let that happen. So he wastes his love on the girls in his life that either can’t respond or won’t respond - his favored pornographic actress, the various phone sex lines, and Special Agent Dana Scully, who quelled each and every one of his flirtations with a dart of her cold blue eyes. On any given night where he’s not chasing down the latest boogeyman he’s conjured from the depths of the X-Files, Glock in his hand, Scully hard at his heels, he’s instead at home, some B-roll porn on the freakier the better, the Big Daddy Tub of Vaseline that’s halfway gone and a similarly sized bag of sunflower seeds. He’s not always jerking off to it, either - he considers himself an expert on any fetish and sexual preference under the sun and while he has his own, he dabbles in anything. Feet, latex, watersports, fisting, BDSM, breathplay, bloodplay, ponyplay, digitally censored Japanese hentai, any and all pairings, races, genders. He wasn’t discriminate. He has his favorites - give him a slutty Catholic schoolgirl any day of the week and he was one happy son of a bitch. But he keeps collecting, stacking each carefully curated VCR or glossy magazine in untold boxes in what once may have been a bedroom but instead is a shrine to his deviance.

It was almost a breaking point when he called his first phone sex hotline. He spent over five hundred dollars in one night, calling woman after woman. Each successive orgasm made him feel even more empty, and after three in a row he eventually pretended right along with the woman on the other line, each playing a role, hers (or his) for the hard-earned cash and his for the brief sensation that might fill the aching void of loneliness in his chest. They didn’t judge him for his esoteric beliefs or piles of pornographic VCR tapes. They didn’t call him “Spooky” and avoid him in the hallways. They loved him boundlessly and entertained his every wish and interest… Oh, in order to finish this scene, please pay twenty dollars, sweetie. After waking up on his worn couch, dick and hands cramped and sore, he realized he’d never go to work if he let himself keep doing this, and limited his calls to just one night a week, or whenever things got especially tough at work.

These habits of his were so all-encompassing they bled into his work. For some reason, he found himself able to execute Sherlockian leaps of logic to the dulcet tones of “Breasty Babes Vol. 7” and was able to find moments of clarity in the soft pages of Celebrity Skin. He tried to keep these all hidden - he wasn’t _trying_ to get fired no matter what A.D. Skinner thought, but he never realized how ridiculous it was until he was working side-by-side with Special Agent Scully, her permafrost gaze sweeping over his weaknesses and exploiting them the second she came into his cramped basement office. He initially decided he’d finally rein himself in, take up cocaine or something less addictive, but then he decided, fuck it. Let her see. Let that Catholic prude be uncomfortable. He was “Spooky” fucking Mulder, after all.

To his great surprise, she didn’t seem to mind, so long as he wasn’t thrusting those magazines in her delicately pale face. A medical practitioner herself perhaps she understood that he wasn’t doing it in an active witch hunt against women. On the contrary, perhaps his own twisted justification, but he positively worshipped the fairer race. They owed him nothing but he owed them everything, as all men did, for being born into this world by their fierce mothers and being the key to unlocking the next generations’ secrets. His obsession with porn was all his own doing and he would take ownership of his perversions.

When she didn’t balk in horror at the occasional issue of “Playboy” wedged between doorstopper books on parapsychology, he began a persistent assault of flirtation. A hand on her arm, then at her waist, ushering her into a room like some kind of bodyguard escorting the last of her kind into a room full of courtiers at her disposal. Constantly taking her out to dinners only to bore her to tears with his ceaseless rambling about obscure demonology and Roswellian conspiracies, dragging her halfway across the country to chase down every empty lead the X-Files could hold for them. He tried to stop himself from constantly touching her, sure this was finally bordering on sexual harassment and she would crush him into nothing if he brushed the hair off her flushed cheek one more time, but it never came. He waited for the cold shower that was her crystalline gaze and was startled that, after years of his pedantics, she was still by his side.

Once he had thoroughly fallen in love with Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully M.D. it was all over for him. He wanted to crush her to him and worship the palace that was her body in his dusty apartment for the rest of his days, weeping penitence into her wonderful sex, and the next minute he was praying she’d finally decide to transfer out of his life and take all her prickly questions and Catholic no-nonsense with her. Mulder never considered himself the sort of person who would treat a woman with this hot and cold stupidity; even in grade school, if a girl showed him any time of day, he’d fall over himself trying to charm himself into her good graces. But everything was different with Scully, it always had been. He found himself consumed by the most infantile bouts of jealousy if another man so much as gave her a passing glance and forget it when he found out about Jerse. For weeks after he couldn’t stop himself from making disparaging remarks about her unseen tattoo, how she’d slept with a man who then tried to murder her. She bore it with particularly stoic resilience, the bruises across her cheeks and neck fading into dusty yellows as he hated himself the further he pushed her away.

When had things changed? It’d happened so slowly, like spring creeping upon the brackish undergrowth, that he couldn’t put a finger to the precise moment they’d gone from unlikely friends to something… closer. Was it after he’d showered her with guilty kisses and affection as she wasted away from a cancer he’d as good as given her himself, or when he held her grief-wracked shoulders after her daughter had passed away? Or was it when she held his head in the gentleness of her lap, the scent of lavender on the Florida breeze, singing off-tune a song that promised of better days together? His lovesick confession to her in his hallway in the summer of ’98 had played no small role, nor when he’d told her flat out, “I love you,” and she laughed and dismissed it simply as his sun-burned, drug-addled fantasies.

But at some point she was over at his apartment for more than just to discuss an X-File; they were watching movies and eating take-out together, or she was cooking sumptuous feasts for him in her own apartment with talent and ease he only saw in her autopsies. And then she would allow him to kiss her, gently on the forehead, hand, or cheek. Once she turned her head and he caught the fullness of her lips, soft and yielding against his own, and she didn’t turn away. To speak of it would chase away the mythic creature he’d somehow lured into his empty life; these secrets were treated with reverence and he daren’t even think on them too much, lest some higher being heard tale and whisked her and her love out of his life once more.

One addiction for another, he found he was able to taper down his rampant abuse of pornography so long as she looked on him kindly. Scully was far more addictive and dangerous and nights alone with a VHS tape paled in comparison to being in her presence. For the first time in years he was able to orgasm without some starlet mewling at him through his television, just himself and the phantasm of Scully gasping in his ears, _Mulder_ …

He never dreamed that these two worlds, the distinctly Irish wildness that was Scully and the saturated gaudiness of his porn addiction, would ever meet, but as ever, the universe was out to prove Fox Mulder forever and irrevocably wrong in all regards.

He had gone to pick up an order of Thai food for two from the restaurant four floors up a block away. He can’t stop the spring in his step, endlessly pleased at the idea that his drafty apartment would be filled the ever-feminine touch and scent of Scully. When he’d left, she’d been wearing this gray cardigan that showed her décolletage to great advantage and simple denim jeans. The sight of her had become common-place after hours since their terrifying summer together. They would kiss and cuddle, tentative as school children, always terrified that someone could see them or the world would literally end at the slightest touch. It was unlike Mulder to have avoided sex with a girlfriend for this long - he was notorious with past girlfriends - but it seemed only fitting to take their time with such things.

He thought he could wait for as long as it took Scully to grow comfortable with the idea… that was until he opens the door to his apartment and realizes she’s no longer curled on the couch where he left her.

"Scully?” He calls, dropping the brown paper package gingerly on the table piled high with books. He sees the bedroom door is open and his heart goes through the floor. He’s scrambling to get there in time, but it is far too late. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully M.D. is elbow deep in a cardboard box filled to the brim with every videotape he’s collected on vintage Japanese tentacle porn. Encircled around her are open magazines of breasty beauties being violated every which way to Sunday, like a seance to summon a pornstar to her at this very instant. He expects her to startle but she doesn’t, merely looks up, all demure in her round-rimmed reading glasses. She clears her throat and pushes them up onto her head, looking at him as if he’d rudely interrupted her reading a scientific journal in her own home.

He’s been an agnostic out of the womb but he calls a prayer to any power that might be to end his suffering right here, right now.

“Mulder,” Scully demures. “I knew about your… proclivities but I didn’t… expect them to be this… extensive.” She gestures a hand to the sprawl of obscene pornography across his dusty bedroom, what once took over the entire room but had been relegated to dingy boxes in the corners. “You could open a store.”

He wants to say _this isn’t what it looks like_ and _it’s all for a case, Scully_ and _you want to borrow some?_ But his tongue isn’t responding, it’s a dead fish rotting in his mouth. He gawps at her holding such profanities in her slender, pale hands once more and then turns to gaze on the aquamarine life drifting in his fish tank, unbeknownst to the cruelties of life outside of their circle of eating, swimming, fucking, and dying. He wonders, gnawing on his thumb, if he just ignores her for long enough that she’ll give up and leave and this will just be another footnote on what an obfuscating loser Fox “Spooky” Mulder was to the wonder that was Scully. He should know better at this point; he can hear her coming to her feet, striding on soft socked feet to his side and placing an arm on his shoulder.

“Mulder… come sit down.” She beckons him to his couch, a static old science fiction flick on pause. He sits numbly, still nibbling on his thumb, while Scully moves into the bachelor’s kitchen. He can hear her preparing their food. He tries to focus only on the taste of salt on his tongue from his skin and not on what he just saw - but how can he? It’s forever burned into his brain. He can kiss goodbye, or lack thereof, of ever hoping to attain anything with her. It’s been abundantly apparent to him that she was entirely too good for the likes of him but this was the final nail in the coffin of his affections. He idly dreams of changing his name to anything and moving to Brazil. He’d heard tales of fantastic supernatural beasts hiding there; maybe he can persuade one to murder him for good.

She places a loaded up plate of pad thai in front of him with a set of chopsticks. “Eat,” she demands in her doctor’s voice. When he doesn’t, she growls impatiently, picks up the plate, and snatches his face with her free hand. He meets piercing cerulean eyes and lips twisted in an expression of utmost annoyance and humor. “Open up,” she tells him. He mouth falls open. She thrusts a chopstick-full of warm food in his mouth. He almost chokes on it but eats it, eyeing her warily.

“You think with your stomach, Mulder,” she smiles. “You’ll feel better if you eat.”

He eats a few more mouthfuls in silence before he hears Scully draw the same inhale he’s heard a thousand times - the distinctly Dana-ish inhale before she prepares an interrogation.

“Why… do you have so much porn, Mulder?” She asks gently.

“Well, Scully, a man’s gotta get his rocks off somehow,” he quips, trying to force a smile to his lips and finding it difficult.

“True, but… so much?” He can feel her eyes analyzing the minutiae of his facial expressions as he carefully chews and swallows more food.

“It’s… partially that, and… something of an addiction, I think, at this point,” he says carefully. These are words unspoken, unexplored. Mulder may be capable of deep introspection, but he’s never cared to analyze this matter, much less vocalize it in any way. “It’s sort of snowballed. At first, it was just… a sexual thing, but then it became a collecting thing and eventually a… fulfillment.”

“Fulfillment?” She asks gently. He nods, struggling with himself to not bodily run out of there screaming with each word he says next.

“I… don’t have a sexual interest in women… unless I’m romantically attached. It’s just… not who I am. Add to the fact I believe I have a higher than average sexual drive, a highly stressful job…”

“Ah…” he can feel the air of her exhale on his bared arms, raising his arm hairs like a wheat field in a storm. “Everyone has their coping mechanisms for these sorts of jobs, I suppose.” She leans over to pluck a perspiring bottle of pale beer from the coffee table. She presses the mouth of the bottle to hers and drinks deeply. She passes it to him once she’s had his fill and he takes a long drought of it, then sets it back down with a clink. Scully’s warm hand finds his, tight and reassuring.

“I’ll get rid of it,” he promises hoarsely. “Every piece. You don’t deserve to be with someone who’s into…” he throws a hand towards the pornographic mausoleum. “shit like that.” He finishes.

“Only if you want to,” she says gently. “Everyone has their vices, Mulder, the things they do to keep themselves sane. I watch too much daytime TV and read cowboy romance novels. Skinner’s assistant, Holly, ties grown men up and whips them on the weekends. You obviously aren’t some neckbeard living with his parents who think women owe them the world,” she smiles, genuine and humoring her lovely eyes. “As far as… men I’ve been with, you might be the least weird.”

“Holly’s a dominatrix?” His eyes are wide, a grin spreading across his face. Her eyes narrow.

“You never heard it from me.”

“Oh, not a word. … Cowboys? Really?”

“Shut up, Mulder.” But she’s all smile. He settles back on the couch, considerably eased and feeling as if he’d dodged a bullet.

“I could be a cowboy, baby,” he drawls. She swats him impatiently. He dodges her laughing, then sobers. “I do want to get rid of a lot of it, though. It’s gotten ridiculous these past few years. I’m not even… not even into most of that shit.”

“What are you into?” The question is so quiet and innocent he almost answers it, then thinks better on it, giving Scully a look. To his great delight, her cheeks flush flatteringly across her fine features. “I’m sorry if it’s…”

“I have an idea.” He has a hunch, much like the ones that drive him to pursue a seemingly dead-end X-File, and chooses a half-full bottle of Kentucky bourbon he’d been working on and two shot glasses. He drops these on the coffee table before Scully, who eyes him warily.

“Question for a question. If you don’t want to answer, you have to take a shot. Deal?”

“Mulder, are we in college?” she quips sourly.

“Special Agent Scully can’t handle her drink?” He grins. She gives him a Scully-certified eye-roll and gestures at him.

“Answer the question, then.”

He lays back, head tipped back and focusing on the dusty light fixture that’s been broken since before he got this apartment above their heads.

“Redheads, playing “doctor”, Catholic schoolgirls, bondage… I had an autoerotic asphyxiation phase but I figured that one was actually bad for my health… oral sex, giving and receiving…”

He glances over at her. Her eyes are straight ahead, a look in her eyes he doesn’t believe he’s ever seen before. Her lips are slightly parted. She clears her throat and crosses her arms surreptitiously.

“Playing doctor, Mulder?” There’s a ragged edge to her voice.

“Being taken care of by a beautiful woman is one of the most erotic things in the world, Scully,” he purrs at her. She blinks hard, clearing her daze and takes another sip of beer. “My turn. Do you masturbate, how often, methods?” He’s not sure why he’s so bold. Is it that strange feeling in his gut that’s driving him forward or that same masochistic urge to alienate and push her away that drives him to cruelty to the one he loves most of all?

She’s silent for a moment, then speaks softly. “I do. Once a day, usually, sometimes more or less depending on… how stressed I feel. I typically use a vibrator.”

“What kind?” The breath has been kicked clean out of his lungs.

“Um, just a normal one. I have a… pocket-sized one I take with me overnight.”

The words go straight to his groin. “So while I’m watching History Channel, little Scully’s thinking about cowboys and rubbing one out? Damn.”

“You and I both know you’re ordering pay-per-view porn, Mulder,” but her cheeks are glowing with embarrassment. “My turn. … So, you haven’t been sleeping with every attractive woman we’ve run into on a case?”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Not a single one, Scully. I’m not into just… “hitting it and quitting it”. I want long-term, I want something consistent and permanent.” It’s as much as a confession as any. The unsaid implications of his words drive him to pick up the beer condensating on the coffee table. “My turn. Are Catholic girls as good at _fellatio_ as I’ve heard rumor of?”

“Now that,” Scully smirks, pouring herself a shot of amber liquid, “is something you’ll have to tell me yourself.” She clinks the glass down, kills it, and drops it down with a grimace. The tightness in his jeans is growing ridiculous; he clears his throat and surreptitiously adjusts his trousers.

“My turn. If you’re such a hapless sex addict as you say you are, why haven’t we done anything yet?” She fixes him with a look that he’d call seductive if it’d been on anyone but Scully; chewing on her full bottom lip, eyes half-lidded, legs crossed and leaning towards him, her body language all but screaming attraction.

He clears his throat. “Well, it’s not for lack of want, per se. I just… I didn’t want to rush anything or make you feel uncomfortable. You and I… well, we’re not the greatest at communicating much of anything. So I’ve just… you know, been keeping my magazine girls company.” He sees her arm recoil to swat him but she relaxes, hands falling into her lap.

“My turn. Have you wanted to… do the naked pretzel?”

“With you?”

“No, my fishbowl. Yes, me.”

“Hmm…” She makes like she’s about to pour herself a shot before eyeing him to see the look of anguish on his face. She laughs, open and throaty. “I’m kidding. Of course I have. I… well, I thought it was apparent but I suppose not. Yes, I’m very attracted to you, Mulder.” She pats his leg like reassuring her teenage lover boy of her affections, not a 30-something FBI agent. She leans over to him, and there is no mistaking the gaze she’s affixed with him now. “Something tells me this line of questioning isn’t going anywhere.” She sits up, then with ease throws her leg over his to situate herself in his lap. Her red hair is in his face, tickling his cheek. His hands are at her waist, sliding over her soft cardigan.

“You’re right, Agent Scully,” he breathes. “I think if we’re going to get anywhere with this investigation it’s going to require a more hands-on approach.” She is kissing him and there is desire in every breath, unmistakable and filling the very air with heady perfume that’s intoxicating. While they’ve had their fair share of kisses and contact these past few months, none of them have been like this, her tongue swiping across his mouth raucously, nails dragging across his skin, leaving the marks of her adoration forever on his skin. He bucks his hips up into hers, desperate for friction. Her hands are sliding up his torso, his shirt riding up along with it until he leans forward and grabs the back, dragging it off himself then immediately reaching for the buttons on her cardigan. He grows impatient and pops one off by accident. She makes a noise in her throat.

“Mulder!” She hisses. “That’s a cashmere sweater!”

“I can sew,” he mumbles drunkenly into her neck, mumbling his apologies and punctuating each one with a sloppy kiss. “I’ll fix it, baby,” he’s never called her any “pet name” outside of their stint in Arcadia but he likes the way it falls off his tongue and into her silky soft skin. Suddenly she’s sliding down his body, nails dragging fire on his bare chest as she sinks down. She comes to kneeling between his spread legs and looks up at him coyly. Her eyes seem a richer blue than he remembers and he feels like he might fall into them. He’s imagined her in a hundred positions all over this couch, including this one, but he’s still surprised and overwhelmed by her, barechested and naughty, undoing his jeans and tugging them down along with his briefs.

Every time he’s ever argued with her, any time she’s pursed her lips in annoyance with his flirtatious quips, he’s imagined those lips wrapped around his cock. Thousands of times in the years he’s known her, came to the idea probably just as often, and yet it’s more and better than his fevered imagination had ever conjured. The noise that comes from his throat is uncontrollable. Her mouth is wet and superheated, the softest thing he’s ever felt, tongue lapping at all the right places. His hands are on her head, stroking her hair because that’s the only form of expression he’s capable of at this point or he’s going to blow his load in about 0.5 seconds. Her nails drag wildfire down his thighs, digging in for pinpricks of pain that only heighten his pleasure. When her efforts grow more fervent he knows he’s not going to last much longer and bodily grabs at her shoulders, pulling her upwards and kissing her swollen lips.

“Fuck, Scully,” he gasps, crushing her to him. “You’re gonna kill me with that mouth of yours,” he mumbles against her weapon of choice. She chuckles warmly, head rolling back as he attacks her neck and chest again with soft kisses and nips. She pulls away and tugs down her jeans and panties, leaving her standing naked before him before she comes to straddle him once more, his cock pressing against her slick folds, the thatch of scarlet obscuring her from him.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, senses coming to him. “Do we need a condom-?”

“No,” she murmurs. “No, it’s fine, aside from… … I’m on the pill,” she finishes, sadness crossing her face. Regretfully he kisses her again, pouring all his love for her, unspoken, into the kisses peppering her swollen lips and rubbing her back. Grasping him in her hand, she guides him into her and comes down onto him. There is no resistance; only the feeling of infinite softness and heat as she comes down fully, grinding her pubis onto him. He loses control quickly; grasping her ass and clamping her onto him, thrusting up into her, wetness and heat spurring him on along with Scully’s soft, pleasured cries, teeth tugging at his earlobe.

“Touch your cunt, Scully,” he rasps into her ear as he fucks her. “I want you to come with me.” She obeys, rubbing a staccato rhythm between them. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He wrenches down her bra and laps at her swollen nipples. They’re delightfully pink and he loses himself in her breasts, and suddenly she’s crying out and grabbing for him and he can’t contain himself, pumping her full of himself and six years of pent tension as he grows slack against the couch cushions, leather sticking to this sweaty back.

“Christ, Mulder,” Scully whispers breathlessly, still on top of him.

“Usually I’d say “Christ had nothing to do with this” but now I’m not so sure,” he exhales. She kisses him gently, more like the usual, then slides off him and stands, moving her way into his bathroom, bare ass bearing a reddened handprint suspiciously like his. He cleans up and throws on fresh clothes and takes some bites of now cooled food when Scully returns, seductive in only one of his white t-shirts, the hem past her thighs.

“I could certainly get used to… that,” he chuckles. She curls up beside him and picks up her own plate of food. While her hair is mussed and lips irritated from being manhandled, she’s returned to her typical sardonic self, albeit a degree of tension has been released.

“I have to admit,” she murmurs, “that’s something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”

“Me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“How long?”

She starts filling up a shot glass in response and he laughs and shoos her hand away. “It can’t have been as long as me.”

“Really? How long for you?”

“Quantico.”

“Quantico?” She’s incredulous. “But… God, Mulder, that really is a long time. Before the X-Files.”

He shrugs. “I’ve always liked redheads, what can I say?”

“I’m flattered. I… I thought you were perfectly attractive, but not to that degree. I… I’ve been wanting to since we were in Oregon that first time.”

“Ahh, I’ll never forget that. I was secretly hoping you were going to seduce me but nope, you were just freaking out over mosquito bites.”

“I didn’t want to until after, when you were so kind to me after I’d completely embarrassed myself.” It was the first he’d ever heard of this. She doesn’t let him ruminate on this long; she stands again and he gets a peek of that perfect ass one more time as she moves to what used to be his bedroom and extracts a handful of dusty VHS tapes from a moldy cardboard box. She has one picked out; Alien Babes Vol. 2. “I’m very curious to see what sort of porn you’re into, Spooky,” she quips before bending down to extract the previous tape.

He laughs. “Funny you picked that one, I bought it hoping it might be an X-File. It wasn’t, but Rachel Morrissey did have some tits on her.”

They don’t get through fifteen minutes of the movie.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I always found Mulder's porn addiction an interesting insight into his character and wanted to elaborate on it. I'm up to season 7 in my first watch-through of X-Files and where has this show been all my life?


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